Page 32 - Savoring

Darla Biel
A LAKOTA WARRIOR ON SENDING HIS SON TO AFGHANISTAN
A turtle’s heart is strong.
Cut it out, place it on the table, and it will beat a long, long time.
My grandfather, who raised me, trained me when I was very small. How to track,
how to be quiet. How to kill, if needed. Once I stayed awake for sixty hours
just to get the chance to kill an Iraqi general.
Three tours and one in Bosnia
and sometimes I ask Tunkasila why
I had to fight so much. Was it my name, Wounded Knee? My father always said
to say I don’t know anything about it, and I don’t. When I joined the Army, they flew me to D.C. and I said over and over I don’t know anything. But fighting is what I know.
My son, he called me just this afternoon
from California and said he was leaving today. I heard helicopters in the background.
One day I found an eagle in the ditch.
Its wing was hurt, so I wrapped him
in my jacket and took him home,
but he died. I took apart his body carefully, pinned his feathers to my wall.
Beautiful. Can you ever stand to see something so beautiful?
And now I’m looking for a little boy. Someone who wants to be a fancy dancer. Can you help me find a little boy?
I’ll give him the feathers for a bonnet,
if he and his parents will pray for my son.
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